


Mark in the Attic

by tetsubinatu



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetsubinatu/pseuds/tetsubinatu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark Vorkosigan finds a diary in the attic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mark in the Attic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [staranise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/staranise/gifts).



The attic was a good place to hide. Miles came up here to think sometimes, Mark knew, but Mark preferred to think in his own room, where his comconsole was to hand and he could pursue a single line of thought without being distracted by some bizarre historical oddment. If one _wanted_ to be distracted though, it was the perfect place, and today Mark definitely wanted to be distracted.

A teetering pile of leather-bound books was caught by his knee as he passed the low trunk they were sitting on and he bent to pick up the spilled books - most of them ledgers, by the look of them. The smallest volume, however, appeared to be a diary. The word 'Aral' in spiky old-fashioned writing caught his eye and he instinctively backtracked to the beginning of the paragraph.

 _That boy will be the death of me!_ he read _I came home and immediately coated my chest in goosefat and wrapped myself in the quilts that Marina made for me, and I hope to avoid taking a chill. At my time of life I should be taking my ease in front of a fire, not babysitting a drunken hothead like Aral Vorkosigan in the cesspits of Vorbarr Sultana._

Mark blinked. A different Aral, maybe?

He looked around for something to dust the volume off, finally settling on what appeared to be an old sheet for the task, then sat down to explore the book further.

 _A proper man drinks ale or mead,_ the diary's owner had written on another day _but today the boy and his pack of lunatics spent five hours drinking every other poison served at the most disreputable taverns without once touching a respectable drink. It was the green goo at the last place that did for him, though to be fair that bubbling orange stuff had done for most of his companions an hour before. Only the Prince could keep up with him and the both of them lay in the gutters like a pair of beggars, puking their guts up as the sun rose. I am sure I am getting chilblains._

Mark could hardly reconcile the wild boy in the book with the dignified statesman he knew. A... cousin, perhaps? An ancestor? But a few pages further into the diary was Winterfair and the date was clearly given. Mark counted in his head. His father would have been about nineteen or twenty.

 _That boy is going to catch the clap good and proper. I carry sheaths for him, but the whorehouses he has been going to are low, dirty affairs. There are plenty of clean places he could go, but no - he always has to take the hard way, go to the most dangerous places. And the Prince just eggs him on. A pair they are - and Aral used to be the sweetest little boy. I remember the dimples on him when he begged sweetcakes from Kirsten a decade ago. Kirsten would not smile so indulgently were she to see him today. Of course, she died almost as long ago._

 _I blame that wife of his. No loss when that one died, that's for sure. That strumpet's been the ruin of the boy._

Mark was so lost in thought that he startled at the first sound of footsteps on the attic stairs. It was Kareen, he knew before she turned the corner. She sounded weary. All her sisters and their various offspring were here today, as well as Miles and his demon-spawn. Looking around he spotted an armchair in relatively good condition and cleared it of a birdcage, a stuffed owl and half a dozen silver spoons before she reached him.

"Sit here," he suggested and she sank into it with a sigh of relief.

"I thought you'd be up here," she said with satisfaction.

"What drove _you_ up here?" he asked. "I thought you and Martya would be catching up for hours."

"Someone told our cousin Elise that Martya was in town and she's only here for another day herself so Martya went over there for the afternoon."

Mark nodded. Elise lived on the other side of the continent and Martya rarely made it back to Vorbarr Sultana either.

"What are you reading?" Kareen asked.

Mark shared everything with Kareen; he couldn't imagine why he felt so deeply reluctant to tell her about the journal's contents. "Some old armsman's diary," he said slowly. "He complains about the weather a lot."

"Sounds fascinating." She wrinkled her nose comically at him.

"It is, actually." He looked at her, wondering if he was protecting Aral from her or her from the knowledge in the book. It seemed wrong to keep a secret from her though. "He seems to have been my father's bodyguard when he was young."

"Ooh!" Her face lit up. "So what sort of things does he say? Lots of blackmail material?"

"He had dimples and begged sweetcakes from the cook. I think the armsman had something going on with the cook."

"Hmmm." Kareen looked at him curiously. She was so good at reading people - she'd surely picked up that he wasn't telling her everything.

"Mama says that the Count was a bit of a wild one when he was young. She always tells us that he's proof that a wild colt can turn out to be a superb stallion."

Mark blinked at the image of the Count as a stallion , startled into a burst of laughter. After a minute Kareen joined in. "Come on downstairs," she begged. "It's almost time for afternoon tea and I think Ma Kosti has some kind of festive spread planned." Glancing at the time, Mark stood immediately. That horde downstairs would go through afternoon tea like a swarm of locusts, and Ma Kosti's genius with pastries was renowned throughout the city.

He bent to put the book down, then paused and slipped it into his pocket instead. It wasn't the sort of material that should be just laying around in the attic. He would keep it; think about it. Perhaps he could learn something from it about the man who was still mostly a mystery to him, despite their joint efforts over the past few years. Mark leaned over to extract a sweet kiss from his Kareen before they were back under the sharply inquisitive eyes of her sisters and she smiled her beautiful smile at him before taking his hand to lead him away.

He followed Kareen down the stairs a lot dustier and happier than when he had gone up.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like this, staranise! I'm sorry that I couldn't get into Mark's head during Mirror Dance but I finally managed to find a small moment set about 5 years after A Civil Campaign.


End file.
